


Dexter Grif's Easy Four Step Plan to Surviving Deployment

by Saturn_the_Almighty



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: ? - Freeform, Alcohol, Bisexual Dexter Grif, Canon-typical language, Character Study, Deep Topics of Conversation, Drama, For a whole Paragraph, Internal Monologue, It's rough, Like, M/M, Oh, One (1) Dirty Blue™, Origin Story, Pre-Canon, Pre-Relationship, Pre-Season/Series 01, The Gru Meme, Trans Dexter Grif, Trans Dick Simmons, Trans Male Character, accidental misgendering, and, based on a meme, birthday gift, grif pov, headcanons, ish, oopsie, spoilers in the tags, wowie, y'all know the one
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-30
Updated: 2018-11-30
Packaged: 2019-08-20 17:01:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,496
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16559726
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saturn_the_Almighty/pseuds/Saturn_the_Almighty
Summary: Dexter Grif wants to survive. Who says he can't fall in love too?





	Dexter Grif's Easy Four Step Plan to Surviving Deployment

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sxpaiscia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sxpaiscia/gifts).



> Lemme just shove 10.5k words of pining Grif at you... Happy Birthday, Sxp, thanks for the meme that sparked this whole thing! Love you! ❤❤❤
> 
> This is high key some of the best writing I think I've done. Please give me validation.

* * *

 

Dexter Grif was, to put it lightly, terrified. Scared out of his mind. Hoping for some miracle that would get him through the shitty life he'd been thrown into. Stupid one-man draft. Not that the life he'd left had been any better. But at least that life had decent food and his sister. Military life did not. It had MREs and 6 a.m. mornings and training drills and people he couldn't stand. Heavy armor and people yelling at him to stop sneaking food into his room and even more people yelling at him because he didn't look like fucking Aedonis like the rest of them.

Military life had people dying right before his eyes.

And people dying right outside his door while he slept.

And people telling him, lying right to his face, that he'd been through a lot and that he was going home. He believed it. God, for months he believed it. While sitting in a hospital bed getting asked incredibly personal questions about his trauma. While boarding a transport vessel with only one other person. But he wasn't going home. When the transport landed and he was told to get off it was just about the most disappointing sight he'd ever witnessed. He wasn't home. Home wasn't exposed red clay and crumbling sandstone and sad patches of grass and high cliff walls with no way out.

When Dexter Grif found out they lied to him he decided that if, by the very same miracle that he'd wished for, he made it home for real, he would track every single one of the distrustful asshats down and spit in their faces. They dropped him in the middle of a fucking canyon and didn't even do him the honor of leaving the other guy with him. Grif only wished that wherever the he ended up it was worse than this.

Blood Gulch was the name of the hellhole Grif had been sent to. It reached 85 degrees Fahrenheit nearly every day, there weren't any good shady spots to nap and worst of all, in the week and a half he'd been there he'd probably begun to go insane. Grif was writing a list. He never wrote lists. He prefered to wing it, be a loose cannon. A maverick. Everybody loves a maverick. Grif had never written a list before. Lists were boring and nerdy and he didn't need a piece of paper with words on it telling him what to do and how to think. Grocery lists didn't count. Those were important.

Grif's list wasn't a grocery list, sadly. There wasn't anywhere to buy food anyway. All they had to eat was a sorry stash of real food that would only last Grif about a month and two closets full of, ugh, MREs. His Sargent, the most morally hard to pin down man in the galaxy, rationed their food. It was only the two of them, so Grif didn't think it was that bad but then the dreaded words ‘fresh meat’ were uttered and he knew it was all over for him. Sarge would never talk about real meat. Command would never send them real meat. He meant a new recruit. Some other sorry sap who would get dropped in the canyon and end up hating his very existence. Grif wouldn't survive if someone else joined Red Team. Then they'd run out of real food even sooner and then he'd have to sit through eating MREs for the rest of his deployment.

No, Grif's list wasn't a grocery list. It was a game plan. By calling it a game plan, he could trick his brain into thinking of it as something other than a nerdy list. Private Grif wasn't a nerd, for the record. He called it _‘Dexter Grif's Easy Four Step Plan to Surviving Deployment.’_ If he was going to do this, live long enough to see his dear little sister Kaikaina, then he was going to need to do some thinking. And thinking took work, which took energy, which took food. Food was precious to Grif. Not many things were, honestly. The small beach near his childhood house that no one else knew about, his sister, food. That was about all.

Dexter Grif’s Easy Four Step Plan to Surviving Deployment started with Step One, something simple which he had already done.

  * Join the Army



It was good to start with something he had already accomplished. That gave him a jumping off point, didn't make him feel like everything was already hopeless. He liked Step One. Step One was easy. Step One didn't even need to be given more than a passing glance because he was living Step One, breathing it. Step One was his life currently. That didn't make him any less terrified. His plan was the closest thing he had to a miracle right now and if he fucked it up there might not be anything left of him...

Grif made sure his plan was entirely untraceable. The last thing he wanted was Sarge snooping around and finding his list, mocking and embarrassing him about it and then maybe laughing in his face for say, making a list or needing a plan to not die. He could not risk it. So Grif kept his list in his head. It was better that way, safer. Ha. _Safe._ As if any aspect of military life could ever be safe. Grif wasn't sure he'd be able to sleep soundly for the rest of his damn life with the constant fear of being shot in the head with Sarge's trusty shotgun.

Grif's list, his plan more like, had really started coming together. He had added Step Two. After sneaking out in the dead of night while Sarge was sleeping and stealing a bunch of snacks to hide under his bed, Grif thought it was time for more thinking. After all, more food meant more energy and more energy meant more thinking. Simple. Sarge mentioned the new recruit. He started talking about it more often. "This new team member will surely be the key to our victory!" he had said one afternoon while staring wistfully up at the sky. Or, Grif supposed he was staring wistfully. It was hard to tell with the helmet.

Grif was always intimidated by new people. New people were very good at pointing out his flaws, turning them into sharp weapons and then cutting him to pieces with them. Even if the cuts healed quickly it always hurt. Best to prepare himself for the worst. Grif figured that the chances of this new guy (or girl or whatever) being a total asshole were pretty high. They'd probably have a name like Derek or Kyle. Maybe Patricia. Ugh. Patricia. Oh, or even worse, something badass. Like Gabriel. Grif had always been intimidated by people named Gabriel.

In any case, if they were an asshole Grif would be prepared to put up his best mental and emotional defense, laziness. But consider, if the new guy was nice, then Grif would end up being the asshole. The last thing he wanted was to be hated by yet another of his teammates and this time be directly responsible for it. So he'd have to prepare for that too. And since Grif was undeniably intelligent (don't take his word for it, ask anyone he knew on Hawai’i) he knew exactly what to do. Just what he was sent to Blood Gulch to do. Fight the Blues. Hence, Step Two:

  * Fight some Blues



Setting a good example by shooting the shit out of the other team would lower the probability of the new guy picking on- uh, emotionally scarring him. Low probability was good. He thought. To be honest, he never paid much attention to the Theoretical Math. Still inexplicably good at practical math, though. That never made any sense to him. Maybe he got it mixed up. Either way, Grif being a good little soldier was key. At least until he could gauge the new guy's attitude. Hopefully that wouldn't be long because fighting the Blues was exhausting and futile. No one wanted to get close enough to get a good shot because Church had a sniper rifle. He never actually fired it, but that thing was scary. And plus, he liked bitching about military bullshit with Church. If he could avoid seriously injuring him, that would be great.

As the weeks went by and Sarge started to be more transparent about his obviously baseless hatred for Grif, he started to get caught in his own head more and more often. Grif liked being in his head, sure. He knew where everything was. No one yelled at him about being fat, certainly not himself. Grif's head was cozy. His thoughts were organized and smart and divided into ‘Dexter thoughts’ and ‘Grif thoughts.’ Grif thoughts were the ones he kept on the surface. Grif thoughts were for the soldier part of him. They were the lazy thoughts. The daydreams, the stupid questions he knew the answer to, the borderline insubordinate backtalk and excuses to run off and nap. The extensive knowledge of snack cakes.

Everything else, the Dexter thoughts, was where he got caught. Dexter thoughts scared him. They were his real thoughts. The thoughts of a little boy who had to look after his sister on Hawai'i. The thoughts of a little boy who learned how to sneak an extra bread roll into his backpack and knew his times tables a month before the rest of his class. Dexter thoughts were tried and proven ways of talking himself out of a bad situation. Endless witty retorts and bad jokes and scoldings said in clipped tones because his dear little sister was back two hours late. Dexter thoughts were his analytical side, his nerdy, careful, perfect handwriting side.

Dexter thoughts were the ones that told him he was worth it. Grif thoughts told the rest of the world he wasn't.

Getting caught in his own head wasn't bad, especially when Grif could escape from having to listen to Sarge waffle on about the trebuchet he wanted to build on the roof of the base. Getting caught in his _Dexter thoughts_ , oh boy, that was dangerous. Because Grif fell asleep quite often and he'd been told by every single roommate he'd ever had that he talked in his sleep. Secret personal thoughts + sleep talking = dangerously high probability of Sarge finding something out. That was the last thing Grif wanted.

So to keep himself from delving into _Dexter thoughts_ he ate. Grif ate because of stress sometimes. And sometimes just because of hunger. Eating also helped him focus on something other than the time, years before the draft, when Kai had tried to dye her hair and got the ugliest green hair dye all over the bathroom sink. _Dexter thoughts._ Grif lounged on the couch and bit into another dried apple slice. He really would have preferred fresh apples but no one wanted to ship those out to a dry ass canyon. Come to think of it, he seriously doubted command gave even the smallest fraction of a damn about him or anyone else in Blood Gulch. Why? Because he had asked for hair conditioner months ago and nothing came in the supply drops.

Stupid fucking Command. They clearly didn't know how much work went into maintaining his glorious hair and his sanity. Grif let out a long sigh and finished off the dried apples. He wanted something to happen. Or maybe just something to do. Anything to escape the misery his life had become. The Blues weren't even doing anything so they couldn't ‘attack’ them. But knowing Sarge, he'd probably do it anyway.

“Grif! Get yer lazy, ungrateful, insubordinate ass out here!” Grif heard from somewhere. He didn't really care to find out from where. His eyes were comfortably closed and he’d always opt to stay where he was when given the chance. He was sure whatever the hell Sarge wanted wasn't too urgent. Urgent meant a shotgun barrel shoved against his nose and a surprising yet terrifyingly level tone of voice.

“Grif! What did I just say, Private?” Sarge yelled. Grif cracked one eye open. No shotgun and no Sarge… yet. He could get a few more minutes of shut-eye. But the probability of bodily harm by way of shotgun spiked up significantly the longer he ignored Sarge. Dexter thoughts. “Grif I swear, if you don't get out here I will be forced… to use excessive force! And by force I mean a bullet!” Grif slung his arm over his eyes and groaned just long enough for the optimal effect. Four seconds. _Kai always groaned for five._ His footsteps were purposefully sluggish and loud and he dragged himself through the kitchen and out of the base. He didn't even bother to find and put on his armor, which in hindsight, maybe wasn't the best idea.

He was immediately greeted by the stiff posture, symmetrical smile and bright eyes of a girl he never, not once in his life, thought he'd see again. He dropped his shoulders slightly, his jaw going slack.

_Seven years ago, Basic Training_

-  
_Everyone introduced themselves by their first names. They were all newbies, who could blame them? None of the men and women standing next to him knew what they were getting themselves into. So it was always ‘Hi, I'm Dexter,’ before his first name was quickly forgotten and replaced with ’Grif!’ shouted in irritation. And this time ‘Hi, I'm Dexter’ was answered by a silence and an anxious look. He'd walked up to the most interesting looking person. She was tall and slim with a thick pair of glasses and shiny green eyes. Her hair was messy and somewhere between wavy and curly. Clearly she cut it herself. It was uneven and a weird length and would be shaved to regulation length in a matter of hours but the shocking ginger color made up for it. ‘Whoa, I've never met a redhead before,’ Grif blurted out. Stupid mouth._

_The girl looked shocked and annoyed at that. ‘It's strawberry blonde,’ she shot back. Grif nodded silently at the correction. He wanted to know her name. She was pretty and seemed like the smart type. Grif liked smart people. He could relate. ‘So what's your name?’ he prompted. The girl opened her mouth once, shut it. ‘Uh, Dick!’ she said, loudly enough to turn a few heads. Grif snorted. ‘Haha, very funny,’ he deadpanned. ‘Just call me Simmons,’ the girl said, exasperated and quickly turning a fun shade of red. ‘That's how they do it in the military, right? Last names?’ she wondered aloud. ‘What should I call you? Aside from Dexter?’ Grif shrugged nonchalantly. ‘Grif, if you feel like it.’_

_They spent every waking moment of basic training together. They never got very close, at least not personally. A grand total of 0.5% of their pasts were shared with each other. But they quickly became inseparable nonetheless. They adopted a recognizable dynamic. Simmons was the brains and Grif was the intimidating and uncomfortably long eye contact if anyone tried to mess with the brains. It was the best time either of them had experienced in a long time. Simmons could be herself withoutworrying about getting a broken nose and Grif could finally let go and not have to be the smart one for a change. Then Simmons got shipped off to who knew where and Grif left to join a doomed colony and they both thought the other to be dead._

Grif stood rooted to the spot drinking in the bright- what was that, magenta- armor and slowly wavering smile. He had so many things to say, so much to ask. _He couldn't ask them all at once, right? Would it save any time, trying to say them all at once? No. Should he pick one at random and just say it? No._

Would Step Two even be relevant if Simmons, the new girl, already liked him and he didn't have to make a good impression?

“Dexter? Is- is it really you?” Simmons’ voice snapped Grif back to reality. Simmons was holding her helmet tightly with both hands. Her hands were shaking. “I never thought I'd see you again, honestly. I mean, we both went our separate ways and I thought that was the end of it but now, I mean, what are the odds right?” Simmons kept talking. Her voice wavered with every word. Her red hair was still regulation length. Almost a buzz-cut. _Really cute._ Grif quickly shut down that last thought and shoved into _Dexter thoughts_ for safe keeping.

“It is really me. What a fucking coincidence,” Grif said, finally finding his voice. “How’ve you been?” He fumbled the words in his mouth. Simmons looked about ready to answer when Sarge held his hands up and looked between the two of them. “Hold on a minute? How in Sam Hell do you two know each other? Grif? Did you corrupt this poor soldier’s mind with your lies?” he shouted. Grif squinted at him. “No. Of course not. She's a friend. She and I went through basic together, that's all,” he said. Simmons dropped her helmet. Grif glanced over and, finding her recoiled in a defensive position with her eyes blown wide, figured he'd done something wrong.

“Simmons? You okay? What's wrong?” he asked, helpfully bending down to pick up her helmet. Simmons took it back from him and shoved it back on her head.

_“He.”_

That was it. One word, but it cut so deep he bled. Grif looked just about ready to bolt. He counted to seven in his head before he even had time to freak out and hyperventilate. “Simmons, I am so sorry. I didn't know, we never talked about it and I just thought, like, you never said anything and I feel like shit for thinking that for seven years and please forgive me, I know how it feels but I never thought I'd do it myself and I'm so so so incredibly sorry and-” Grif cut himself off by covering his mouth with his hands. He turned and darted back inside the base before he could make even more of a fool of himself.

On his way back in, he heard Sarge mutter “Typical Grif. Only someone as yellow-bellied as he would run from conflict! So, how do you feel about trebuchets, Private?” Grif fought the urge to listen to Simmons’ response in favor of locking himself in his room. He hadn't even gotten to initiate Step Two. He hadn't even seen the Blues in days. It looked like he wouldn't see them for another few days. There was no way he was coming out of his room until he figured out how to be less of an offensive douche to Simmons.

Of all the people he- Why didn't Simmons just- Was it right to blame hi- How could he ever-

And all of a sudden Grif was asleep. Wrapped in exhaustion and a blanket he drifted off into a stagnated rest full of anxious what-ifs and his idiocy played on repeat.

Grif woke up groggy and fairly sure he hadn't eaten in at least six hours. He knew it was going to take him a very, very long time to forgive himself for what he said to Simmons before his nap and possibly even longer for Simmons to forgive him. It was never a good feeling when one was misgendered, intentionally or not. Grif felt like he had done a disservice to his entire community. But Simmons never told him, that had to count for something, right?

No.

Simmons had absolutely no obligation to tell him. His business was his business. How many times had Grif said that himself? Sure, he had thought they were friends but… they didn't really talk about personal stuff. Grif didn't say anything, why should Simmons have? It would have been nice to know, of course. Something more to bond over, but he knew how hard it was to trust and to tell.

Grif laid in bed for a long time, just thinking. He did that more often than he noticed. Even more so since he ended up in Blood Gulch. His mind immediately took him to his Easy Four Step Plan to Surviving Deployment. Steps One and Two were clearly laid out. Even though he hadn't yet completely followed through with Step Two, he counted it because he had fought the Blues in spirit. That was a lie. Step Two was a failure. Step Three, however was his problem. It was disappointingly empty and honestly, nothing was going in that spot until something went in Grif's stomach. He dragged himself out of bed, briefly considered getting changed and just settled for changing his sweatpants.

The kitchen was blessedly empty and the sky outside was black. Grif supposed it must be the middle of the night. Perfect time to snack. Score. He padded across the ugly salmon colored linoleum to the fridge. The first thing he noticed was that someone had organized the contents by color and average calories per suggested serving. Simmons. Only he would have done something like that. He remembered a time back in Basic when Simmons had tried to convince their CO to let him organize their food supply. His excuse was something having to do with stress relief. Grif easily bypassed everything else and found what he was looking for, tucked in the back between the yellow and the green foods. Hummus.

The last container. Not even opened yet. Grif had used up all his good threats on Sarge to convince him not to eat it. He didn't even know if they had any chips left but he felt like shit and he wasn't above eating hummus with his bare hands. He would never be above eating hummus with his bare hands.

“I don't think we have anything to eat that with, Dexter.” Simmons’ voice was lowered, like there was a baby in the other room he didn't want to wake up. Sarge was a baby in some ways. Sure slept like one. Simmons was leaning against the kitchen doorframe wearing an oversized gray t-shirt and exercise shorts. Grif closed the fridge door with his foot and quickly shut down any Dexter thoughts that might have wormed their way out of his mouth. _I like when you call me Dexter. It reminds me of before the military._ He shrugged, not too slowly, not too hunched. “Bold of you to assume I won't just drink it,” he said. Simmons snorted.

Honest to goodness, he snorted. Like, milk would have come out of his nose had he been drinking any. His cheeks darkened as he covered his mouth to hide what might have been a smile, in another universe. “I don't doubt that,” he assured Grif. He sat down at the kitchen counter and watched Grif peel back the freshness seal on the container of Hummus. Neither of them spoke for a long time. Grif scooped hummus out of the container with his finger. Simmons eyed the coffee pot with his frosty green eyes.

“I'm so sorry about earlier,” Grif said to the counter. He idly traced the condensation ring the container made on the surface. Simmons dropped his head in his hands and looked at Grif. “It's fine,” he lied. Grif flicked the water off his finger. “It's not fine,” he corrected. Simmons exhaled. “Yeah. Yeah, it's not. But it's not your fault-” he glanced at Grif, who looked at him like he was crazy, “- really, it's not. You didn't know. I never told you. It just sucks.” He reached across the counter and pulled the hummus towards him. “Because I try so hard and it still happens. I have to constantly correct people because I'm apparently too pretty and feminine and it makes me want to kick something.”

Simmons looked like he really did want to kick something. Grif stayed silent while Simmons pushed up his glasses and poked at the hummus. “I don't expect you to understand. And that's okay, but please don't do it again.” Grif tilted his head. “I can do that, no problem. But honestly I've been beating myself up over this because I _do_ understand and I- I don't know, should have noticed, I guess?” Grif pushed his hair back and stared up at the ceiling. “That doesn't sound right. I'm sorry.” Simmons pushed the hummus back to Grif. “What did you say?” he asked quietly.

“Sorry?” Grif repeated. Simmons waved his hands. “N-no, before that! You said you _do_ understand?” Simmons sounded hopeful and confused but his voice was actually really nice and- “What? Oh, yeah. I get it, dude,” Grif said easily. Simmons leaned forward in his seat, giddy with excitement. “You mean you're- you- are you-” Grif raised his eyebrows. “Huh?” he asked. “Oh.” Grif reached for them hem of his shirt, ignoring the sudden aborted breath Simmons sucked in. He pulled his shirt up to his chin and watched Simmons try to figure out where to look while a blush crept across his pale, freckled face. It had been a while since Grif had looked in a mirror. He wasn't much to look at anyway. He didn't know how bad his scars were, maybe they'd faded more.

Simmons found his voice after a few more seconds and hastily tugged Grif's shirt back over his chest. “Put your shirt back on,” he squeaked. Then, “You could've just said you're trans, you didn't have to- to, uh-” Simmons cut himself off with a huge smile that he let himself show. “I just-” He tried to stop smiling, but it stayed plastered across his face and he settled for discreetly covering his mouth with his hand. “You pass better than I could ever hope to. Thanks for tell- showing me. I didn't know you trusted me that much,” Simmons mused. Grif didn't answer. He was too busy committing Simmons’ smile to memory and carefully making sure it was in _Dexter thoughts._

He gave Simmons a small nervous smile before standing up and putting the hummus back in the fridge. “Of course I trust you,” he said. “But I'm beat and I should really get back to bed.” Simmons checked his watch- _nerd_ \- and frowned. “Grif, it's six a.m. We should be up anyway, training is starting,” he said proudly. Grif raised an eyebrow. “No offense, but I don't care. Training is work. And you should know one more thing about me, Simmons. I don't like work. I don't like things that take a lot of energy. So if I can avoid that, I will.” Grif walked past Simmons. “See you at noon,” he called as he walked back towards his room.

Grif and Simmons met up almost every night after that. Neither of them admitted that it was on purpose. They pretended it was just coincidental. Every single night. But the routine was nice. To Grif, it was almost just like every other part of his life, which had become one big fucking routine. But this was different. He heard about something different every time they sat down. The simple act of listening to someone else's life lit up Grif's eyes. His own was boring anyway, he knew it all. He'd seen it all before. Simmons tiptoed into the kitchen later than Grif most times. Just a simple nod or a shy smile and then they'd sit down and make small talk. Grif liked to make them coffee. He liked his dark with tons of sugar. Less so now, because Command stopped sending them real sugar weeks ago and Simmons looked concerned when Grif tried to put fake sweetener in it, saying it would give him cancer.

Simmons, on the other hand, was a bit pickier about his. He refused to drink decaf. He liked it with at least a half a cup of milk or creamer, no sugar. Ever. Grif memorized it in the first week and had a cup ready for him when he walked in. They liked to talk about nearly everything. Simmons took the time to recall something that had happened during his previous deployment, usually funny but once in a while he'd let out a huge sigh and start with “to be fair, the guy didn't know I was trans.” Grif appreciated that he was sharing more personal stories but he felt like Simmons was using that as a reason to excuse people's behavior.

That wasn't how it was supposed to be. According to the stories, Simmons rarely got seriously angry like that. He would just correct them once and expect them to remember. Which was how it was supposed to go, but _people_ , Y'know? “You know it's always okay to get angry, right?” Grif told him one night. "It's not that hard for them to switch pronouns." He lazily swirled the last of his coffee around in his mug. “Uh- yep. Yeah, I know. But people are ignorant. Still. Honestly, I thought it would be better but what can you do, right?” Simmons shrugged slowly. Grif snorted. “Get mad, Simmons. It feels amazing. Yell at someone, hit them in the arm, scream at the top of your lungs and tell them tthey're incompetent. Tell them to go fuck themselves. You're allowed to be pissed at someone for being insensitive. It's justified,” he said. Simmons grumbled quietly.

“But I don't want to make them mad at me,” he reasoned. Grif sighed, _four seconds, optimal time,_ and clasped his hands in front of him on the counter. “Simmons. You haven't been here long. We haven't seen each other for seven years. Why don't I break out my hard liquor, we go up to the roof and you let out all that-” he gestured to Simmons’ stiff shoulders, “All that energy. Sound good?” he asked. Simmons’ hands tightened around his coffee mug. “Energy? What do you mean by that?” He asked. Grif raised his eyebrows. “I was trying to say it nicely, but let me put it this way. Being trans is a lot of work. You have to put up with a lot of expenses and a lot of bullshit. It pays off in the end but I think you deserve to get pissed.”

Simmons was quiet for a moment. “What kind of liquor?” he asked, his interest piqued. Grif gave him a sly smile. “Go wait for me, it's a surprise,” he said quietly as he jumped out of his chair and started pushing Simmons towards the ramp. “I'll be there in a sec.” Simmons let himself be led out of the kitchen and hesitated at the bottom of the ramp. “Don't take too long, Dexter,” he called back through the doorway before heading up the ramp into the night air. _I like when you call me Dexter._

Grif, being the genius he was, knew where Sarge's secret vodka stash was. He had not-so-cleverly hidden a few bottles behind a fake panel in a kitchen cabinet. It was primitive, nowhere near Grif's own ‘hide plastic bags full of shitty lite beer in the ceiling fan light fixture’ but it worked. Grif slipped the panel back in place and took a bottle up the ramp to the roof. Simmons was sitting on the far edge, his feet hanging over and his chin resting on his hand. “‘Sup, nerd,” he called out. Simmons jumped.

“Jesus Christ, Dexter!” He whirled his head around and looked up at Grif. “Warn me, fuck’s sake,” he mumbled. Grif sat down next to Simmons and held out the bottle. “Will this make up for it?” he asked. Simmons glanced at him quickly. It was hard to see in the dark but somehow, Simmons’ eyes still shone a bright green. He smiled, small but sincere, and took the bottle from Grif. “It'll more than make up for it,” he said. “I'm going to get smashed, if you don't mind.” Grif laughed quietly. “Only if I can join you.” Simmons twisted the cap off the vodka and took a quick swig. He immediately started coughing and doubled over amidst a few heavy inhales. Grif’s hand instinctively went to Simmons’ back to steady him. “You okay, dude?” he asked quietly. Simmons, his eyes watering, nodded to him while he continued to cough.

“I just- didn't ex-” Simmons took a few deep breaths, clean of any residual vodka. “- didn't expect that. I haven't had alcohol in a very long time,” he admitted. Grif laughed quietly. “Yeah, that seems about right.” He took a swig of vodka and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “Let's play a game,” he said. Simmons wrenched the bottle out of his hands and raised his eyebrow. “What kind of game?” he asked, swirling the vodka around in the bottle. Grif nudged him in the shoulder. “A drinking game, asshole.”

Simmons’ shoulders curled inward. “Uh, a what?” Grif tapped the glass with his fingernail. “Never have I ever. You've played before, right?” he asked. Simmons stared at the bottle. “Once or twice,” he mumbled. He took another long drink and Grif slapped his hand. “Ah ah ah, don't drink yet! That's all I have left, asshole,” he hissed. Simmons shrugged wordlessly. Grif narrowed his eyes. He cracked a small smile. “Let's play. I'll go first,” he said. “Never have I ever…” he flicked his eyes over to Simmons, “Gotten bottom surgery.” Simmons turned his head. “You drink if you have done it?” he asked. Grif nodded. The bottle stayed still in Simmons’ hand. He was frowning at the liquid within. “My turn,” he said after an uncomfortable silence. “Never have I ever fucked a girl,” he said with confidence. Grif yanked the bottle out of Simmons’ hand and knocked it back.

“Y- you wh- you've-” Simmons sputtered. Grif wiped his mouth and gave Simmons a wink. “Yup,” he said. “Why do you sound so surprised?” Then, after a pause, “It was not fun.” Simmons went still. Grif didn't say anything else for a few seconds. He leaned his head back and stared up at the unfamiliar stars in the sky. “We were both young and stupid and I had gotten the idea in my head that I had to live up to the ridiculous standards of everyone else I knew. Half the girls at my school were either pregnant or gonna be. All the guys wouldn't shut up about their sex lives. I thought, ‘if everyone else is fucking eachother, shouldn't I?’ I was fucking stupid. I thought, for the longest time, that I was lesbian. Back before I knew I was trans,” Grif said. “After that I never saw that girl again and I realized I am as bi as it gets.”

Grif leaned forward and leaned on his legs, looking over the edge of the roof. He chewed on his lip absently. He never really meant to go that in-depth. Fuck, this always happened when he played this stupid game. Everything got deep and personal but it never mattered because his inhibitions were lower than the fucking Mariana’s Trench and- “Never have I ever come out to my mom,” Grif said after it got so quiet that he could feel his heartbeat in his ears. Fuck it, get deeper. Simmons let out a loud breath through his nose and took the bottle back from Grif. He took a long drink, long enough to be trying to escape from something, everything. Grif raised an eyebrow in silent question as Simmons set the bottle down between them and stretched his legs out straight, pointing his feet towards the empty sky.

“I was twelve when I realized that I hated wearing dresses and pretty shoes and sitting for hours while my mom did my hair. All I wanted was to wear t-shirts and run around in the mud and pretend to be Batman. I told my mom I wanted to change my name because I never liked when she called me-” Simmons swallowed thickly, “Ashley. My mom hit me and told me to stop thinking like that. I was her daughter, she said. I wasn't a boy and I never would be.” Simmons paused for a moment and wiped his face with the bottom of his shirt. Grif noticed the way his stomach tensed when he squeezed his eyes shut and tried not to tear up. “When I was seventeen I cut my hair with a pair of safety scissors and stomped into the living room to tell my mom I was trans and that I was going to stay with a friend.”

Simmons snatched the bottle again and drank half of what remained. His eyes shimmered with tears in the strange midnight glow. “Well, it turns out my dad was there too and he broke my head against our expensive living room mirror while telling my that nothing I could ever do would change the fact that I was girl!” Simmons took two shaky breaths and clenched his fists in his lap. Grif had half a mind to wrap his arms around Simmons and stay there forever and tell him that he was a beautiful man and anyone who said otherwise could suck his dick. “So I told him to go fuck himself and I never set foot in that house again.” Simmons silently fumed for a good minute before putting on a fake smile and turning to Grif. “Sorry about that. Sometimes I just need to vent, you know? I usually never tell people that much, I don't- I don't like talking about it.”

Grif nodded to him. “I get it, dude. Shit like that sucks.” He leaned into Simmons’ shoulder lightly. “But it helps to have someone to bitch about it with, right? That was so brave. Your parents sound like dickheads.” Simmons laughed dryly. “Thanks. They were. I can't imagine what it must have been like when they found out I joined the military. If I could see their faces…” He shook his head slowly. “I'm just happy to be-” he searched for the right words. “Better? Happier? Away from them?” Grif stayed leaning against Simmons and took a drink for the hell of it. “My mom didn't really give a shit. She was barely ever home and when she was I really don't think she was paying enough attention to realize I gave all my dresses to my sister and started binding nearly every day.” Simmons scoffed. “Fuckin’ shitty parents club right here,” he said, gesturing between them.

* * *

 

The bottle of vodka was disappointingly empty when Simmons went to drink from it a half hour later. “Dexter, I'm so glad I found you,” he said out of the blue. Grif, who was laying splayed out on the roof, tilted his head to look up at Simmons. “Yeah? Even though I misgendered you and probably made you feel like shit?” he asked, stumbling over the word ‘misgendered.’ Simmons grinned. “Yeah. Even after all that. Believe it or not, you're a great person to be around. And you're, like, nice to sleep on,” he said, laying down with his head half on Grif's chest. “I'm never going to need another pillow again. You're soft,” he mumbled. Grif chuckled. “Thanks for the compliment.” Simmons didn't reply. Grif glance down at his face, blissfully and suddenly asleep, flushed a deep color from all the alcohol. He sighed. If only he didn't have to move.

Sadly, concrete was not and never would be a comfortable sleeping place. He knew from experience. Grif slipped out from under Simmons and dragged him upright. “Let's get you into bed, you lightweight,” he said, pulling Simmons’ arm around his shoulder and trying to guide him to the ramp. Simmons mumbled “‘m not a lightweight. Half a bottle.” Grif kept walking. Simmons whined. Honest to god, he whined. Grif froze. He held his breath, savoring the sound. He took another step. Simmons groaned, refusing to use his legs. He kept his eyes shut but half-whispered. “Don’ make me walk, Dex.” Grif’s eyes widened. No one ever called him Dex. No one but his sister. Was it weird that he really liked it coming from Simmons?

Simmons went limp without warning and almost dragged Grif down with him. “Agh-” Grif let out a strangled yelp while he tried to grab Simmons’ arms. He considered a fireman’s carry. Kept considering it. Tried to remember how to do it, through the thick haze of alcohol. Then he hauled Simmons up and over his shoulders. His hand landed on Simmons’ thigh, which was comfortably warm and soft and something Grif was not going to address while drunk and barely able to walk like a regular person as it was. He was also trying to ignore the giddy laughter that started to bubble from Simmons’ mouth. “Shhhh,” Grif hissed. “Be quiet or Sarge is gonna get pissed,” he whispered. Simmons slapped a hand over his mouth. He said something but it was muffled by his hand and all Grif could understand was something about not being able to disobey a commanding officer. Either that or something about condoms, but knowing Simmons it was definitely the former. He had a thing for listening to rules and actually doing what the CO said 100% of the time unless he was somehow convinced by Grif to not do so.

Simmons was weird but in an endearing way. Always by the book, always one to please. Now he was hanging off Grif's shoulders and telling him how soft his hair was and how shiny it was and how he didn't like having long hair but it made Grif look pretty. Simmons was a chatty drunk. Grif padded down the maze of hallways to Simmons’ room, where he dumped him unceremoniously on the bed. Simmons hooked his arm around Grif's neck and didn't let go. “When did you-” Simmons started, his voice wobbly and thick with sleep. His eyes were still closed. “When did you get top surgery?” he asked. When he said ‘surgery’ it sounded like ‘surgey’ and that was the funniest thing in the world to Grif so he started snickering and fell on top of Simmons trying to muffle his laughter.

“Why do you wanna know?” he wheezed, his head still fuzzy from laughing so much. Simmons, who had scooted closer to Grif and was laying with his face an inch away from Grif's, shrugged. “I want a flat chest but it's so confusing and I don't know where to start an- an if I ask then everyone is gonna know and that's scary,” Simmons said. Grif's head cleared in an instant. “Wait- wh- is that why you never get angry at people when they misgender you? Because you're scared of what will happen if they find out?” he asked. Simmons nodded. Grif smiled. “Where are you gonna go in life if you aren't proud of yourself, Simmons?” he asked gently. Simmons pouted. “I am proud of myself. I just know that everyone else isn't.” He rubbed his eyes tiredly and stifled a yawn.

“I'm gonna do it. I will, just not now,” he mumbled. Grif's eyes slid shut despite his efforts. Simmons quieted down too and he thought he was asleep until, right before Grif drifted off, he heard Simmons whisper “Everything would be simpler if I could just be a lesbian.” Grif’s eyes popped open and he started to laugh. Simmons was laying with his face half pressed against the mattress wearing a lopsided grin. Grif couldn't stop the uncharacteristic twittering laughter that came out of his mouth. Simmons tried to stop his own laughter but he only ended up making it louder. “Yeah, we should just be lesbians together,” he said.

Grif quieted down and mirrored Simmons’ smile. They both found each other's eyes and stared for a while. Grif's mind, stupid and traitorous, recalled the night when Simmons had yanked his shirt back down. His slender fingers brushing across Grif's skin, seeming all at once to be too quick and just shy of an eternity. It had taken everything he had not to shudder at the contact. To be honest, he couldn't remember the last time someone had touched him like that. It felt nice, however fleeting it may have been. Hopefully, it wouldn't be the last time. Hopefully Simmons would touch his shoulder every once in a while or maybe brush his hand against Grif's arm but- but why would he? They weren't anything like that.

Grif screwed his eyes shut and told himself to _shut up. Stop thinking like that. Simmons is your friend. He's not obligated to give you any kind of contact no matter how desperate you are oh god_ Grif really really missed that kind of thing. He was touch-starved so far beyond what he wanted to admit. Simmons’ fingers had sent fire down his spine and now the inch between their noses felt like a mile and a half. He had the high alcohol content of his blood as an excuse but what would happen if he tried to close the gap between them? Grif opened his eyes slightly to gauge Simmons’ expression. He was asleep. Grif sighed, not knowing whether he was disappointed or not.

On the bright side, Simmons wasn't bad to look at. He had delicate freckles dusting his cheeks that Grif dared to call cute and his nose was strong and pointed and he'd probably have to tilt his head a lot when he kissed someone- Goddamint, _Dexter thoughts._ Grif struggled to keep his eyes open as Simmons slipped into a deeper sleep but he finally followed suit when the clock on Simmons’ bedside table read 2:23 a.m. The last thing he registered was that Simmons snored and it was the only thing that mattered as he passed out with his legs half sprawled out on Simmons’ floor.

Grif woke up to Simmons’ alarm clock making the most irritating sound in the universe. He didn't move. In a few seconds Simmons was up and moving around and Grif kept his eyes shut for the sake of any shyness or dysphoric anxiety that Simmons might have. He stayed silent while Simmons struggled into his undersuit and clasped his armor into place. Only when his heavy boosteps faded did Grif sit up and open his eyes. He was laying on the bed with a thin bedsheet covering him. He knew he hadn't fallen asleep like that. Simmons must have tucked him in when he woke up. The thought brought a smile to Grif's face and more than a little heat to his cheeks.

Simmons was sitting on the arm of the couch looking over Sarge's shoulder when Grif dragged himself into the common room to down an entire gallon of water for his headache. “You're up early,” Simmons commented, not looking up from the blueprint Sarge had in his lap. Grif simply grunted as he shuffled past them towards the kitchen. His arms ached. It sucked.

Fifteen minutes later he had moved on to drowning himself in coffee and finally getting some food in him. Simmons strolled over to the kitchen counter and leaned against it, crossing his arms. The armor was so bulky on him, however, that the gesture was lost on Grif. He slid his eyelids open more and raised a very lazy eyebrow at Simmons. “What?” he asked. Simmons uncrossed his arms. “I would say I had fun last night but I distinctly remember venting about my childhood so ‘fun’ shouldn't be anywhere in the sentence,” Simmons said.

Grif set down his fork and turned his attention away from his breakfast. “Did you not want me to know?” he wondered. It would suck if Simmons had said something he regretted the night before. He just needed to know. Simmons shrugged. “I guess? I just wasn't going to tell you. There's a difference but it's small.” Simmons took a long but quiet breath. “Let's just not talk about it anymore, okay? Maybe… let's just not talk about personal stuff?” Grif blinked. “Sure,” he shrugged. Simmons gave him a small smile and left the kitchen without a word.

Man, Grif was kickass actor. He should get a _fucking Oscar_ for that. ’Sure,’ he said, without any indication that he actually really liked talking about personal stuff with Simmons. Grif leaned over and let his forehead fall onto the countertop. A tiny sigh escaped his lips. Well, so much for a deeper relationship. He'd just have to settle for an impersonal friendship. Again. He was having serious flashbacks to basic training when Simmons just needed someone to help him not get the crap beaten out of him. Now he just needed someone to help him get through the boring days in Blood Gulch. Grif could deal with that. He could. It would be fine. It wasn't as if he enjoyed finally being able to talk about his troubles to someone who would understand. Fuck. Grif lifted his head from the counter and groaned. His headache was back.

Grif found Simmons and Sarge standing around a pile of scraps and conversing about what was probably going to be the trebuchet. Grif hoped they would use him as ammo when it was done and just fucking end him. It didn't help that Simmons’ thinking face was incredibly attractive. Grif backed down the ramp and shut himself up in his room until the evening. He knew it was safe to come out when Simmons and Sarge were both at the dinner table (like a good American family). It wasn't difficult to slip past them and out of the base. He wandered around for a few minutes before turning sharply and making his way towards Blue Base.

Grif's hand felt heavy as he pounded on the door. Church was the one to open it and even behind his visor Grif could tell he was annoyed. “What the hell, dude? I was sleeping,” Church snapped. Grif could tell there was no real venom behind it. Also, he was in his armor, so the fucker was lying. It had been a while since they had seen each other. Grif shouldered past Church and into the base. “Where do you keep the booze, I need a drink,” he muttered, despite the fact that he still hurt from last night's vodka. Church trailed after him. “Keep your fucking voice down, if Flowers wakes up he's gonna kill us both,” Church hissed. “And you know exactly where the booze is, asshole.”

Grif and Church rarely ever talked to each other when they drank. Not about emotions, at least, Church was bad at that. But Grif needed this. He needed someone to vent to and Church would listen no matter what. Even if he complained every two seconds about how far away from the base they were going. So what if Grif liked to sit on a small outcropping on the cliff? Someone was bound to yell at them if they stayed down at the bases. It was quiet too.

“You know we got a new Red?” Grif asked. Church gave him a sidelong glance. “That burgundy dude?” Grif snorted. “He says it's maroon.” Church opened a can of old beer that had been in the fridge for who knew how long. “I knew him back in basic,” Grif continued. “We really hit it off. I thought things could go back to that. O-or maybe improve. But he doesn't want to talk about personal stuff and I can't tell him that I want to because that's weird but I finally find someone who gets me and he's so closed off about it and I don't know what to do and-” Church slapped his hand over Grif's mouth. “Let me stop you right there,” he said. “Why does it matter so much to you? You never want to talk about stuff either. Nothing important, at least.” Grif sighed. He didn't take the can Church offered him.

“Can you keep quiet about something, Church?” Grif asked. He looked over for confirmation and Church nodded. “Yeah. Sure,” he said. Grif took a deep breath. “Simmons is- he and I-” he stopped. It really wasn't his place to say. He shouldn't. But it was eating away at him. He- he didn't need to mention the specifics, right? “Simmons wants to get a surgery but he doesn't want anyone to ask questions about it.” Church simply raised an eyebrow. “And he's scared to death but I can't help him at all and I hate seeing him so stressed out even though he's always been stressed out. I guess,” Grif ran a hand over his face to wake himself up, “I just want to be a better friend but for him that means not talking. I thought friends were supposed to talk.” Grif sounded like a five year old meeting someone his age for the first time.

Church’s face split into a grin. “Awww, you think we're friends!” he shouted. They did talk sometimes. Grif gave him a once over. His pale face was flushed and he looked like he was trying to push his glasses back up his nose by sheer willpower alone. There was probably something fucked up about that back-of-the-fridge beer. “I think,” Church said, leaning heavily on Grif's shoulder, “you should listen to him. If you care then you should give him his space. Same thing with me and my girlfriend, I haven't seen her in a long time but I still love her and I think she's gonna come back when she's ready.” Church got a wistful look in his eyes as he stared out across the canyon and for a moment Grif thought he might start crying.

“But if he means a lot to you and you like his cute face then-” Church paused, his nose scrunched up, then sneezed. “Uh, then, um…” He had lost his train of thought. “Oh, then respect him and his wishes.” Grif shoved Church off his shoulder with a snort. “Yeah, I never said I liked his cute face, asshole,” he said. Church took his glasses off and wiped them on his shirt. “Oh, really? Then he's fair game? Because I like his cute face,” Church mumbled. Grif took ahold of Church's wrist and squeezed it. “He is not fair game. Don't even think about it,” he warned. “He's-” Grif paused. Wow. It wasn't like him to get so defensive of someone other than his sister. And he loved his sister.

Oh god. He loved his sister. He was protective of his sister. By all logic, did that mean- Grif scrambled to his feet and started pacing quickly. No no no no no. It was fine. He didn't- Sure, Simmons was pretty. He had a nice smile and cute freckles and if he just opened up they would have so much in common, Girf was sure of it. He had seen Simmons' collection of Star Trek t-shirts every single night when they had talked. Grif liked Star Trek. They should have bonded over that. Simmons got annoyed easily and always got up on time and did everything Sarge said while also giving him compliments that sounded genuine, a feat in itself.

Simmons was a wonderful, smart, nerdy, cute guy and Grif liked him a lot. No wonder his ‘let's not talk about it anymore’ had wrecked him. “Church, I'm fucked,” he muttered as he started on his way back down the cliff. Grif wasted no time in hurrying back to Red Base. Everyone else was already asleep. He doubted they gave it a second thought when he didn't show up for dinner. Speaking of. Grif padded into the kitchen and rummaged around in the fridge for leftovers. He spotted a covered container of what looked to be homemade lasagna. He took it back to his room and ate in silence, wrapped in his blanket and keeping his mind dangerously empty of thoughts. He started to drift off as soon as he finished eating. That was good. That was fine. No time for stray thoughts, he reasoned. As Grif tried to sleep, Step Three manifested itself.

  * Fall in love with a nerd



Grif hated Step Three. With a passion. It was not at all what it was supposed to be. He thought maybe it would be something having to do with getting transferred or something. Falling in love had nothing to with surviving deployment. What tactical advantage could that ha-

Oh shit. He was starting to sound like Sarge.

All he wanted to do was stay alive. Getting a crush on his friend from seven years ago wasn't a good idea. It would complicate things. He probably didn't even like guys. Yeah. Simmons? Liking guys? Nah. He was straight as an arrow. **_Simmons had never fucked a girl._**   _No, shut up. Definitely straight._ He could convince himself of that. Get his mind off that heart-stopping smile, those pretty green eyes framed by strawberry blonde eyelashes… when did he have time to remember all his best features? Oh, right, when he was sitting on the roof drinking shitty vodka with him in the middle of the night and spilling secrets.

It was almost noon and Sarge had Grif doing squats for being late for 35 consecutive days. but he had abandoned that and now he was just sitting on the ground wondering about how well he could camouflage a chair. At least, he had started out thinking about that. Somewhere down the line he had noticed Simmons running laps around the base and his train of thought jumped the tracks and run into a tree. Simmons was glistening with sweat as he slowed to a stop right in front of Grif and leaned down to be on eye-level with him. “What are you doing?” Simmons asked, tilting his head to the side. His mouth was open just slightly so he could get more air into his lungs and he knew that it was just that but somehow it was the hottest thing Simmons had ever done. “Squats?” Grif said, shoving his _Dexter thoughts_ somewhere deep and bringing out that good old Academy Award winning acting.

Simmons just shrugged and started to walk away. That was fine. Grif was busy trying to process how his own brain had betrayed him by adding Step Three anyway. Fuck Step Three. He should just… just start over. Remove Step Three. _Just stop thinking about Simmons, damn it! Stop thinking about his surprisingly toned legs and wow holy shit he must run a lot. Don't think about his voice and how nice it is and the way it sounds so good when he's winded._ Grif screwed his eyes shut and considered screaming at the top of his lungs to release whatever tension he may or may not have had.

Grif could hear Sarge moving around on the roof, muttering himself. He was still on the trebuchet thing. Then, another set of boots joined his and Sarge stopped moving. “What do you say we build this trebuchet, Private?” Grif heard Sarge say. Simmons cleared his throat to get rid of his nerves. “Very good, sir,” he answered, sounding much more confident. Grif stretched his legs out in front of him and pretended not to hear Simmons’ excited tones and timid suggestions on improving the design to fully use physics to their advantage. He loved hearing Simmons talk science. He knew more about that kind of thing than Grif did. It was always wonderful to hear people talk about things they loved.

Grif got up from the ground and yawned, catching even himself off-guard. He needed some coffee. Grif walked inside the base, Simmons voice echoing behind him. “Yes sir!” He sat and stared at his coffee, watching the steam rise in intricate wisps. He almost didn't notice when Simmons walked in and reached for Sarge's favorite screwdriver on the counter. Grif eyed Simmons’ hand. “Why are you doing that?” he asked. Simmons froze. He took a second to compose himself. “Sarge asked me to get it,” he said defensively. Grif stared at him. Simmons sighed. He rephrased:

“I just want to actually listen to my commanding officer. Something you should maybe try,” Simmons said. Grif took a sip of his coffee. “Nah,” he said. “I don't think that's for me. Plus, if you suck up to him I can do whatever I want.” Simmons looked at him with a look that was very hard to decipher. “What do you want to do?” he asked. _Hold your hand? Sit for hours and talk? Fall asleep against each other? Kiss your stupid face too, if my brain has anything to say about it._ “Eat.” Simmons scoffed. “Seems like you that an awful lot already,” he said. Grif held up his hands. “It's not my fault food is so good. Maybe if you sucked at cooking like Sarge I wouldn't have this problem.” Simmons looked taken aback. “I- I'm not that good,” he said. Grif laughed. “That's bullshit, Simmons. I would eat anything you make in a heartbeat. That lasagna last night blew be away.”

Simmons squinted at him suspiciously. “Why are you being so nice?” he asked. Grif shrugged. “Because it's true, obviously,” he said. Simmons waved his hand dismissively. “Stop it, I don't need you to lie to me,” he insisted. Grif shoved his hands in his pockets. “I'm not lying, Simmons. You're a good cook. You're a good friend, even if you don't want to talk. And,” Grif took two well-placed steps towards Simmons, “you are-” _A beauty, handsome, smart, talented, brave, nearly perfect-_ "a good man. You always will be. No matter what.” Grif gave him a smile, just like the ones he gave his sister when she got good grades and stayed out of trouble. And he loved his sister.

Simmons gave him a shaky smile of his own but didn't meet his eyes. “Thanks,” he said, his voice just above a whisper. Grif nodded slowly. There was a silence that stretched between them before Sarge's voice cut through, a sharp “Simmons! Where have you gone off to?” Grif sighed. “Well,” he started, Simmons blurting out “I should go,” at the same time. Simmons winced at his own outburst. Grif gestured to the doorway and watched silently as Simmons sent Grif a small wave and he turned and left. Grif stayed where he was for a few minutes, just staring at the floor. He had so many thoughts running around in his head, half of them _Dexter thoughts._ Maybe he would follow Step Three. _Maybe he could._ It wouldn't be long, really. He could add a Step Four. Only until he got shipped somewhere else. _It might even be fun. Step Four could be the same exact thing. There were worse people to fall for._ He could do it.

_How hard could it be to love someone?_

**Author's Note:**

> Don't forget to leave kudos and comments! They absolutely make my day! ❤❤❤
> 
> Hey, do you want to draw something for one of my fics? If so, just do it. I'd absolutely love to see it! You can hit me up on Tumblr @voiid-vagabond and tag it with #four step plan fic but I'm not on that often so I might not see it. Alternatively, you can just put a link in the comments and I will scream over how beautiful it is before putting it in the fic and screaming about you in the notes.
> 
> I have a lot of Grif headcanons that I would love to talk about hehehe


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